trees in the snow
Author: mobius faith
Story Of Our Lives #127
holes
“I don’t make mistakes”
“I DON’T MAKE MISTAKES”
“I don’t make mistakes!”
Hmmmmph!
arrogant, ballsy fraud.
Elitist, cock-sure punk.
The claim
itself a mistake
waiting to humble
the utterer of lies.
Pop the balloon
of ego
(or is it id?).
Beat the
empty piñata
there’s no sweetness within.
Drink the curdled milk
soured by
time in the slow
heat of ignorance.
Remove the clothes
made dirty by
the ejaculation of foolishness.
Wash clean
the soiled
soul.
Rinse the body and
dress it in the clean
fresh clothing of
righteous humility.
Walk out into
the quiet morning of
birdsong
welcoming you
to a new life
where others sing
your praises,
as you practice
patience
for the mistakes
of others,
when they look
fearfully to your
criticism
only to find
the warmth
of the sun,
blue skies of kindness
green grass of compassion
in the welcoming embrace
of
forgiveness and understanding.
a winters day
I was born….
I WAS BORN
I was born in 1960. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I will turn 60 in 2020.
I turned 20 in 1980. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I will turn 80 in 2040.
I turned 40 in the year 2000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
All of my present has been
neurotically ricocheting
back and forth between
my past and my future.
I turned 40 in the year 2000.
When I turn 00
I will return to
what I was
before I was born
At peace.
At home.
In total oneness with
existence and nonexistence.
snow on the fence
the writing blahs
The hand lies
limply on the page
Pen flip-flopping flaccidly
insipid, impotent inspiration
Desire, a
vacuous turncoat
betrays me
What to write.
What to write?
What To Write!
nothing.
over the river and through the woods
falling
going down
between floors
the fire of sunrise reflected
haiku on vulnerability
Walls overcome by
broken vines and shattered panes leave
heart exposed to life.
broken vines & shattered panes
Haiku on seasonal transition
Dark clouds slipping
through the cold gray skies of Spring;
Winter lingers on.
wall pieces
Dawn Haiku
Pastel skies of
Lavender, pink and tangerine
paint the morning.
the great divide
haiku on spring
My ears warm to
the sweet sounds of Spring as
songbirds return.
Concrete Trestle
haiku on self-deception
The butterfly
believes it’s flying, still trapp’d
in its cocoon
minimal
haiku on Autumn
Autumn paths remain
buried as Antigone’s wind shakes
the leaves from the trees.
two sides
haiku on poverty
An old man stands,
only holes for his pockets,
begging for more.
Water In The Sky
Tree Lichen
Pattern In Ice
Speaking in Tongues
SPEAKING IN TONGUES
(based on 1 Corinthians 13:1 NIV)
“blah blah blah
blah blah blah blah blah
blah blah blahblah,
blah blah blah blah blah,
blah blah blahblah blah
blahblah blah blah
blah blahblah blahblah.”
So,
blah!
A Killing Frost
